


Go easy on me now

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, CEO Stiles, Derek Hale as Superman, Derek is Superman, Journalist Derek, M/M, Pining Derek, Secret Identity, Stiles is Batman, Super Sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9581852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Derek just turned down Stiles Stilinski.  Stiles Stilinski of Spark Enterprises, billionaire and superhero on the side.  Derek must be insane, but it was either turn him down, or accidentally end up revealing his true identity.  The things Derek does for the sake of this planet.Or the one where Stiles is an out Batman with a thirst for justice, and Derek is a closeted Superman intent on hiding away his secret identity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is me finally getting on the super!Sterek bandwagon, but better late than never!

 

Derek runs through the hall, a sheaf of paper clutched in his fist, perspiration dripping from his brow.  He’s late, he is so very, very late.  He dodges a gaggle of interns coming around the corner, narrowly missing knocking a cup of coffee flying.  

He has five minutes to submit his article to the editor before Lydia tears him a new one.  He’s usually good at keeping his deadlines, but the internal messaging system has been down for hours.  He only realized the article never reached the editor’s hands a scant two minutes ago.

The elevator is open at the end of the hall and he books it, running faster than he usually would while not wearing his super suit, but it can’t be helped.  Besides, it’s not as if anyone suspects Derek Hale, with his big nerdy glasses, toothy smile, and perpetual cowlick of being one half of the two superheroes keeping the city safe.  That would be insane.

He slides into the elevator, just as the doors shut, out of breath for appearance’s sake.  He hasn’t really worked himself out of breath, but he’s trained himself from childhood to make it seem like he has.  

Derek presses the button for the nineteenth floor, turning to the other occupant of the elevator with a sheepish smile, an apology for rushing in abruptly on the tip of his tongue.  However, before he can say a single word he gets a good look at the other person, and the words slide right back down his throat.

_ Stiles Stilinski  _ looks at him, a curious smile on his face, one hand tucked nonchalantly into his suit pocket, the other packed away in a garishly lime green plaster cast, held close to his body in a sling.  He looks like he hasn’t a care in the world.  As if Derek’s newspaper, The Tribune, didn’t out him to the public a month ago.

Derek wonders if Stiles recognizes him.  He had written an article about refugees being turned away at the harbour by their boorish mayor, which was placed directly under the headlining article outing Stiles.  Derek’s smiling thumbnail was placed beside his words, but he wonders if Stiles saw it beyond the “Batman Revealed, A Secret No Longer!” spelled out in gigantic font beside a photo of a suited up Stiles lying bloodied on the pavement, mask torn off his face.

According to the article, Stiles had been fighting a group of bank robbers when they managed to gain the upper hand.  They had torn him a new one, breaking his arm, and revealing his secret identity to the shock of the world, including Derek.

He always thought Batman would be someone with at least a bit of superhuman power, maybe the result of a mutation, or an experiment gone wrong.  Instead, he’s just a human, albeit a rich one with more than a billion dollars to his name, but still, human.  

And humans are so easily broken.  Ergo the cast.  

Stiles tips his head to the side, brow furrowed as he looks at Derek.  Maybe Stiles does recognize him.  He expression clears, and a brilliant smile comes over his face.

“You’re Derek Hale,”  Stiles remarks, “It’s nice to meet you, dude.”

Derek blinks, wondering why a billionaire thinks it’s nice he got to meet a reporter, especially one working for the paper that revealed his secret identity.

“I read the article you wrote on Gerard Argent.  It was gutsy, it takes some real balls to come out and accuse the mayor of fraud.”

“It wasn’t an accusation, I provided proof.”  And Derek did, everything from transcripts that took ages to requisition, to recording from security cameras, to statements from affected parties.  That story had taken him months to research and write.  Whatever good it did in the end—Mayor Argent is still in office.  

The man has his tiny, little hands in the underground’s honeypot.  No one wants to mess with him.  Except Derek.  

The paltry assassin Argent sent after him didn’t even make it into his building before Derek picked him up and flew him right to the police station, dumping his unconscious body on the steps with an illegal sniper rifle in his bag.  It’s no wonder he’s the only person voicing their opinion.  He imagines Argent’s other critics don’t have super powers at the ready to keep death from knocking on their doors.   

Stiles lifts one hand, and it looks like he’s about to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.  Apparently, it was not what Stiles was going for because he makes a face like he’s pained.  It’s horribly obvious he’s still getting used to having only one working arm.  

Derek feels for him.  He’s seen what Batman can do first hand.  Patrolling the city and putting criminals away is the total opposite of trying to lift both hands in mock surrender, but failing badly because his cast can’t move an inch.  Whomever put his arm in that sling obviously knows about Stiles’ propensity for strong body language.  Derek’s attended quite a few of Spark Enterprises’ press conferences, and he will never forget the time Stiles’ gestured so strongly, he sent his microphone flying off stage.  The gossip rags had a field day with that.   

“I’m not arguing with you.  I admire what you did, and it needs to be said.”  Stiles nods his head.  “Not a lot of reporters would be willing to do that.”  Stiles looks him over, his gaze sharp and calculating, like he’s trying to figure Derek out.  Derek has no doubt that Stiles could do exactly that if given enough time.  “I’m half wondering if you’re horrifically stupid, or incredibly intelligent.”

Derek snorts and the elevator dings open to his floor.  “Maybe I’m just ridiculously lucky.”

***

Derek doesn’t expect to see Stiles again, so consider him surprised when the next morning he walks out of the local coffee shop to see a town car waiting—a young man with a crooked jaw and crooked smile holding the door open.

“Mr. Hale,”  the man says, gesturing to the door, “Please get in.”

Derek clutches at his caramel macchiato, croissant crumbling in his fist.  

“What?”  He raises his brows at the man, silently asking if he thinks Derek’s insane.  He’s not getting into a stranger’s car.  The only reason his secret identity is still secret is because he doesn’t put his helpless journalist persona in any mortal danger.

Derek considers dumping his breakfast and booking it for the nearest alleyway.  The man with the crooked jaw has on the most inconvenient looking loafers, Derek thinks he could pull a disappearing act without using any super speed.  Then Stiles sticks his head out the door and all thoughts of fleeing leave his mind.  

Derek should be worried how easily he forgets that Stiles has the capability to see through his disguise, considering he used to wear his own.  

When Stiles says, “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”  Derek finds himself doing exactly that.  Curse Stiles Stilinski and his brilliant mind and button nose.

“Wait, why are we going shopping?”  Derek asks when the man, probably Stiles’ butler, shuts the door after him.

Stiles looks at him, as if he’s the crazy one.  “Umm, Regina George?”  Derek blinks, still lost.  Stiles sighs.  “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Mean Girls.”  

Derek shakes his head.

“This is a travesty, right Scott?”  Stiles turns to the front of the car, addressing his butler through the divide as the car pulls away from the curb.

“I haven’t seen Mean Girls, either, Stiles.  Frankly, I don’t know why anyone would want to, it sounds, well,  _ mean _ .”

Stiles shakes his head, making a face.  “Pop culture references are lost on you two heathens,”  he mutters under his breath.

Derek looks between Stiles and Scott, feeling very uncomfortable.  He’s just glad he has his coffee and croissant.  He wouldn’t know what to do with his hands if he wasn’t gripping them like a lifeline.  

“Why am I here?”  Derek ventures to ask, a little bit worried about the answer.  He should have taken off running while he still had the chance.

Stiles purses his lips, and looks like he going to tell Derek something he’s not going to like.

“I need your help.”

Derek’s brows fly to his hairline.  “ _ You _ need  _ my  _ help?”  Derek repeats, an edge of suspicion in his tone.  “But you’re Batman.”

Stiles sets narrowed eyes on him, and Derek swears he can feel that glare trying to dig a hole into his sternum.  

“I  _ was  _ Batman.  Now that your employer outed me, I’m just rich boy Stiles Stilinski playing at being a hero.” 

Derek frowns, brow furrowing deep.  “You can’t stop being a superhero.”

“You can, when there’s paparazzi camped outside your batcave, giving your location away to all the big bads out to get you.  If I even go out in the suit, people just point and laugh.  I’m human, and now that there’s no mystery, no one takes me seriously,”  Stiles says dismally, looking incredibly sorry for himself.  “Will you help me or not?”

“Geez.”  Derek runs a hand through his hair.  “I don’t even know if I can help.  What do you need?”

“To continue what you started.  I want to bring down Gerard Argent,”  Stiles states surely.

“You do realize I’m a reporter, right?”  Derek asks.  He’s more than just a reporter, but the more Stiles doesn’t know, the better.

Stiles snaps his fingers.  “Exactly, you’re a reporter.  You’re great at digging around and finding all the underhanded shit that happens around the city.  I don’t know of anyone more qualified to take down Gerard Argent than you.”  Stiles pauses momentarily, looking into his eyes unnervingly.  “Except maybe Superman.”

Derek swallows, tearing his gaze away from Stiles.  “Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’m asking you,”  Stiles says assuredly, a faint smile on the corner of his lips.  “I’ll give you resources, I’ll give you contacts.  I’ll give you anything and everything you need.  All you need to do is write a damned good article, and maybe, just maybe, we can get that bastard arrested.”

The car rolls to a stop, and Derek looks out the tinted windows to find the coffee shop he was picked up from.

“So what do you say?”  Stiles asks, looking at Derek like he already knows his answer.  Cocky and sure.

Derek rolls his eyes.  “I’ll need access to your archives, and a good coffee machine.”

Stiles grins, wide and unabashed.  “Done and done.”

***

The day Gerard Argent falls, is a day celebrated around the city.  Booze flows like manna at the tavern.  College students celebrate by getting shitfaced, and middle aged men and woman sit with faint smiles of their faces, watching on the big screens as their corrupt mayor gets led out of city hall in handcuffs.

Eight weeks of hard work has finally paid off, and Derek’s celebrating in his own way.  He’s got a mug of beer in hand, his tablet in the other, as he scrolls through social media looking at what people are saying.  He saves some posts, intent on contacting the posters for follow up interviews.  It’ll make a good aftermath piece.

Good journalism never takes a break.  Derek knows this is only the beginning.  He might have helped get corruption charges raised against Argent, but his deputy mayor got away scott free, and that man is just as bad as Argent.

His phone rings, and Derek picks it up without checking who’s calling.

“Derek,”  Stiles says through the line.  His voice is light, and there’s no background noise coming from his end, so Derek assumes he’s in his office.  He’s probably sitting on the couch facing the massive bulletproof window displaying all the city to his eye.  If there’s one thing he’s learned about Stiles after working together to bring down Argent, it’s that he hates sitting at his desk.

Every other day for the last two months, Derek would walk into Stiles’ office in the morning, two coffees in hand courtesy of Scott, only to find Stiles sprawled out on that sofa, legs waving in the air, papers spread out in front of him.  He would have a pen tucked behind his ear and a chewed up pencil in hand.  He likes using both, one to sign with, the other to write notes to himself.  It’s just one of the many quirky habits that make Stiles, Stiles.

“How’s my favourite reporter doing?”  Stiles asks teasingly.  His tone is rough but smooth at the same time.  Derek has heard Stiles speak in that same tone when he wants to get an informant loose lipped.  It’s seductive, and it makes Derek wonder what Stiles wants from him.

It was hard hiding his secret identity from Stiles.  He has a way of seeing right through people, and Derek found himself trying even harder to deflect suspicion.  Hell, he had to pretend to be in total agony when he slammed a car door close on his hand.  His acting skills got a strong workout, to say the least.

“I’m great,”  Derek says, “watching Argent get loaded into a police car is very therapeutic.”

Stiles chuckles, and Derek hears the slosh of liquid and a clink of ice.  “I wish you were here,”  Stiles says candidly,  “the view is great.”

Derek can imagine, the city must be lit up.

Derek smiles into the phone.  “You’ve got Scott to keep you company.”

“Nah.  Sent him home to his wife, thought he could use the day off.”  Stiles takes a sip from his drink.  “It’s just me by my lonesome in a big  _ lonely  _ office with nothing to do with myself.”

Derek snorts.  “Do you want me to come over?”

“Hmm,”  Stiles hums like he’s seriously considering saying no.

“Stiles...”  Derek trails off.  He doesn’t feel like playing games.

“I’ll send a car to pick you up, where are you?”  Stiles asks, voice full of something that sends a shiver right through Derek.

“Don’t bother, I’ll catch a cab.”  

He’s about to hang up when he hears faint footsteps.  A human wouldn’t be able to hear it, but he can.  They’re light, airy, like a cat.  They remind him of the sniper that Gerard sent to have Derek killed.  

“Stiles,”  Derek says, voice serious as he gets up from his seat, beer and tablet abandoned on the table, “You said you sent Scott home?”

Derek doesn’t wait for an answer.  He runs for the door, bursting into the cool night.  Smokers gather and he rushes past them, trying to find an alleyway.  He knows in his gut that something is terribly wrong.  

The footsteps stop, and it only makes the feeling worse.  He rushes into a secluded alley, tucking himself away from the street, behind a dumpster. 

“Yeah?  I did,”  Stiles says airly, completely unaware of what’s happening right outside his door.  His security system must have been taken out if the assassin managed to get this close to Stiles.

Derek quickly pulls off his tie, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder as he unbuttons his dress shirt, dropping his clothes where he stands without a care.  Derek makes a decision, that he knows will be impossible to explain away later, but if it manages to save Stiles’ life, he won’t regret a single thing.  He knows Stiles keeps prototype gadgets in his desk drawer, playing with them if he ever gets bored during the day.

“Stiles,”  he whispers hurriedly, trying to convey how serious the situation is, “there’s someone outside your fucking door and their intentions are not so pure as mine.”

The line is silent for a long second before Stiles hisses, “I’ll have to call you back, sir.”

Derek swears when he hears the dial tone.  He drops his phone into his pile of clothes, placing his glasses on top, cape blowing in the wind.  He knows Stiles can take care of himself, he’s been doing it longer than Derek’s lived in this city.  It’s just he can’t help but remember that Stiles is a fragile human.  Stiles’ cast had only come off a week ago.  He’s in no shape to fight for his life.

Derek’s got to do it for him.

He shoots off into the air, arm outstretched in front of him.  

He will make it in time.  He has to make it in time.

He sees Stilinski tower on the horizon, and flies even faster.  His sharp eyes spot commotion coming from Stiles’ office.  The assassin’s got Stiles pinned to his desk, struggling wildly.  He’s got a hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, holding back a bat-shaped black blade pressing against the assassin’s neck.  Stiles is only able to hold it close enough to cut, not to maim.  Blood trickles down the blade, falling onto Stiles’ pale skin.

He’s losing ground quickly, and Derek sees the exact moment when the assassin grabs Stiles’ weak arm and slams it hard against the desk.  Stiles shrieks in agony and his blade falls from his hand. 

Derek sees red.  He feels his eyes heat and steam the air around him as he gets ready to melt a hole in the window.  It may be bulletproof, but it sure as hell isn’t laser proof.

His vision melts a perfect sized hole just as Derek shoots through, landing on the far side of the room.  The assassin looks up, his expression surprised.  Stiles’ eyes are closed in pain.  Good, he won’t have to see this.  

Derek picks the assassin bodily off Stiles and flings him across the room into a series of potted plants.  Derek hears something snap, and hopes it was the guy’s left arm.  Karma would be beautiful like that.

He rushes over to Stiles, heart beating out of his chest in worry.  He finds Stiles passes out cold, marks dotting his skin.  They’ll mature into bruises soon.  His arm is red, with a handprints on his wrist.  Derek hopes it hasn’t fractured again.  

He picks up the phone that was knocked off the desk and calls emergency services.

Ten minutes later, both Stiles and the assassin are wheeled off the premises into two separate ambulances, one with a police escort, the other alone.  Derek wishes he could travel with him, but he knows Stiles is safe, and he knows exactly which hospital they’re taking him too.  He’ll visit when he’s not wearing such conspicuous garb. 

A few of the EMTs start side eyeing him, wondering why he’s still here.  Superman doesn’t usually stick around for the after party.  Derek sighs heavily, taking off into the sky.  He’ll fly back to the bar, dress, then catch a taxi to the hospital.  Hopefully no one stole his tablet, and his clothes aren’t too dirty.  He wants to see Stiles again as soon as possible.

***

An armed officer stands outside Stiles’ hospital room.  

The nurse points it out, saying that Scott is already there with him.  She explains his condition, saying it was nothing too serious—bruises, scratches, but thankfully the fracture in his arm did not rebreak.  He’s scheduled for an MRI to check for a concussion, and Derek is instructed to keep quiet and not agitate her patient, lest he get kicked out.

Derek has no intention of doing any of that.  He just wants to see Stiles, to make sure he’s okay with his own two eyes.

Stiles rests on a bunch of puffed pillows, left eye bruised blue and purple, a shallow cut decorating his cheekbone.  His gaze locks on Derek, the moment he walks into the room.  He looks terrible, but alive, and that’s all that really matters.  Scott sees him, and gets up from his chair, gesturing for Derek to take it.  He pats Derek on the shoulder, then leaves the room, giving them privacy.

“Are you ever going to tell me how you know Superman?”  Stiles asks, looking at Derek sharply.  “Cause as far as I know, Superman only comes to the rescue when he hears about shit going down through the media, and a dude coming to secretly do me in wasn’t broadcasting all over the news.  Only you knew, ergo...”  Stiles raises his brows pointedly, expecting an answer.

Derek relays the lie he’s been practicing for ages, “He’s one of my journalistic contacts, I’ve got his number and his ear, and besides, he owes me a few favours.”

Stiles hums.  “That must have been a quick conversation you had if Superman was able to drop everything he was doing and fly to my rescue within minutes of when I hung up on you.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders.  “Believe what you want, it’s the truth.”

Stiles still looks unconvinced, but after a beat of awkward silence that stretches oppressively over  the two of them, Stiles shakes his head.  “Fine.  I’ll get it out of you one day.”  

“It’ll take quite a few glasses of wine, but you can try.”

Stiles tries to chuckle, but stops midway through with a hiss.  Derek reaches out, but Stiles bats his worried hand away.  “It’s fine, bruised ribs is all.”  Stiles bites his bottom lip, before smiling lightly.  “Thanks.  For calling him, I mean.  You saved my life.”

“He saved your life,”  Derek counters.

Stiles shakes his head again.  “ _ You _ saved my life.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”  Derek reaches out, placing his hand on top of Stiles’.  Stiles flips his hand around until they’re palm to palm, linking their fingers together.  Stiles’ hands are clammy warm, like he’s nervous about something.

“I wanted to ask you something when I called you up, before that guy jumped me.”  Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip.  

Derek holds his hand tighter.  “What is it?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner with me sometime?  Maybe when I’m out of the hospital, and don’t look as beat up as I do right now?”  Stiles asks, eyes wide and blinking, vulnerability showing through with a weak smile.  Sometimes Derek can’t believe this is the same man that used to drive around in his batmobile, protecting innocent civilians from criminals.  He looks so tired, and Derek hates it.

“We’re friends, of course I’d like that.”

Stiles’ faint smile drops from his face as he says steadily, “Not as friends, Derek.”

Derek blinks, stumped and surprised.  He didn’t know Stiles felt that way about him.  “You mean a date?”

Stiles nods.

Derek finds himself shaking his head before he can thoroughly think it through. “I can’t.”

“Oh,”  Stiles exhales sharply, “Okay,”  he says like it isn’t okay.  

“It’s not you-”  Derek begins, put Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek’s raising it, wordlessly telling him to stop.

“It’s fine.  You don’t have to explain yourself to me, I understand.”

“Stiles…”

“Derek.”  Stiles smile is tight lipped and ingenuine.  It makes Derek want to tear out his hair in frustration.  This mask isn’t Stiles.  It’s closer to Batman, and it hurts Derek to see it when he’s spent months getting to know Stiles.  That smile has nothing to do with the lively, intelligent, kind man in front of him.  “It’s fine.”

A nurse walks into the room with a wheelchair, breaking the moment between them.  Derek’s secretly relieved, and he wonders if that makes him a terrible person.  He likes Stiles, he likes him a lot.  He likes him more than he’s ever liked anyone before, but Stiles is smart.  He’s  _ too _ smart, and nobody can ever discover that he’s Superman.  His adoptive mother always warned him that if anyone outside the immediate family knew about his identity, it would put everyone he loves at risk.  It’s not that he doesn’t trust Stiles, he just has to be careful.

He watches silently as Stiles is wheeled out by the nurse for his MRI.  Derek sits in his seat for a few moments longer, trying to convince himself that he did the right thing.

He fails terribly.

***

He knows he’s avoiding Stiles.  It’s horribly obvious to him, and everyone who knows him.  Derek has spent the last two months seeing Stiles at least every other day, so going a week without seeing him, feels like something’s missing from his life.

At least he has his job to keep him busy.

“You’re moping, and I don’t like it.”  Lydia taps her stiletto clad foot against the linoleum floor, making an awful racket.  She’s the editor-in-chief at The Tribune, and she is absolutely ruthless.  Derek hates her a bit, but he also admires her.  She’s tough as nails and eats sexist white men for breakfast.  It’s the reason she managed to beat men with the exact same qualifications as her for editor-in-chief, and why Derek hates her a bit.

“I don’t know what’s got your panties in a twist, but you missed a deadline.”  Her eyes narrow, and she points a sharply clawed finger at his face.  Derek goes cross eyed trying to look at it.  “Get your shit together, or it’s your ass on the chopping block.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,”  Derek salutes, wondering for the millionth time how Cora manages to put up with her.  She’s not the first woman he would have chosen as a sister-in-law, but Cora seems to love her just fine, no matter that she doesn’t cut him any slack whatsoever.

Lydia doesn’t know that he’s Superman, and Derek wants to keep it that way, he shudders to think about what she would do if she knew who he was.  Probably milk him for exclusive interviews.  Thankfully, Cora’s very good at keeping a secret.

Lydia stalks off to go do whatever she does to manage keeping a newspaper up and running in a time of the internet.  Derek turns back to the article he was writing on a local dog show, which is also apparently past deadline.  He drops his head on his folded arms wondering how suspicious it would look if he drank twelve coffees in one day without acting the slightly bit wired.

***

Derek’s sitting in his apartment, distractedly watching a show about werewolves when his phone rings.  It’s his mother, and Derek contemplates how disappointed she would be if he ignored her and let it go to voicemail.  Eventually he decides the guilt trip she would lay on him is not worth it, picking up the phone with a sighed, “Hi mom.”

“Oh, Der-bear, you sound awful,” she says, her tone so worried and familiar, Derek can’t help but smile.  “Is someone bothering you at work?  I’ll talk to Lydia, she’ll make them stop.”

Derek snorts.  Lydia’s more likely to make sweet promises to his mother, then tell him to suck it up.  Although, he imagines she’ll also threaten Derek’s imaginary bully with dismemberment via office stapler if they don’t lay off him.  She cares about Derek in her own special way.

“There’s nothing wrong with work,”  Derek says, turning the volume on the television up.  He doesn’t want his neighbours to hear him talking.  “It’s Superman.  I want to tell someone about him, mom.”

“Is it the Stilinski boy?  The other superhero?”  His mother says, unsurprised.  Derek’s been talking about him a lot, and his mother is anything but stupid.

“Yeah,”  Derek admits, “He asked me out.”

“That’s wonderful,”  she exclaims excitedly, “I hope he’s taking you somewhere nice, you deserve the best, sweetie.” 

“I turned him down.”  Derek can almost hear her frown through the phone.  “Before you ask me why, it’s because I think he’s figuring it out.”

“And you want to tell him before he does?”  She asks knowingly, and that’s his mother.  She’s the sharpest tool in the box that is the Hale family.  There’s a reason she’s the matriarch.

“I care about him, but I’m scared.  There’s too many what-ifs to consider, I give myself a headache just thinking about all of them.”

“Do you trust him?”  His mother asks simply.

Derek doesn’t even have to think about it.  “Yes.”

“Then you have your answer.”

***

Derek shows up at Stilinski towers with a bouquet of daisies in hand, wondering if he should have bought roses instead.  

Roses might be too presumptuous.  Then again, what is too presumptuous when asking out the guy who asked you out a week ago, but whom you rejected because you were scared he was going to find out your super secret identity, because he had, until recently, a super secret identity of his own.  

Fuck it if Derek knows.  He’s never dated anyone seriously.  He’s always been too afraid to.

The elevator opens to Stiles’ floor and Derek walks forward cautiously.  Stiles knows he’s coming.  The receptionist in the lobby had called him the moment she caught sight of Derek.  Her eyes wide as she quickly picked up her phone, saying a cryptic, “he’s here.”

He was surprised when his clearance got him into the elevator.  He’s ess surprised to see Scott waiting by the door.

He looks at Derek, then down at the daisies in his hand.  His head tilts to the side and he says, “Stiles is very good at taking care of himself, but I’ll have you know that if you hurt him again, I know how to weaponize a serving tray.”  Scott smiles and gives him a bone chilling look.  He pushes past Derek, walking back down the hall.

Scary.  

Derek stands outside Stiles’ office, gathering his resolve, before cracking open the door and peering inside.

Stiles sits at his desk, throwing the same black blade he held to the assassin’s throat up in the air, catching it unfailingly by the handle each time it comes down.  

Derek swallows nervously.  

He glances around the room, seeing everything perfectly in place.  The hole in the glass is fixed, looking like it never existed to begin with, and the plants are sitting upright, not a leaf out of place.  It doesn’t look like Stiles was nearly murdered in here, and Derek is grateful for that.

“Are you just going to stand by the door all day long, or are you going to come in?”

Derek jumps to action, quietly shuts the door behind him, approaching Stiles’ desk, flowers held out in offering.  Stiles wrinkles his nose, but quits tossing the knife, so Derek counts that as a win.

“What’s with the flowers?”  Siles asks, obviously confused.

Derek scratches his head.  “They’re for you.”  Derek holds them in front of Stiles, but when he doesn’t take them, Derek places them on his desk.  He knew they were a bad idea.  He should have gone with roses.

“Huh?  Why flowers?”  Stiles asks like even the concept of Derek giving flowers to him is ridiculous.

“I wanted to.”

“Fine,”  Stiles says irritably, tossing the blade over his shoulder where it embeds perfectly into the centre of the dartboard behind his desk.  Derek may or may not find himself slightly hot under the collar.  Okay, he absolutely does, but he can’t be blamed, a show of skill like that would turn anyone on.  

Stiles gets up and walks over to the small kitchenette in the office.  Derek learned that Stiles gets peckish when he works, and doesn’t like eating out.  He prefers to cook his own meals, or have Scott cook them, so it was convenient to have a kitchen in his office.  Stiles makes a mean grilled cheese sandwich.  

Stiles bends over, digging around in a cabinet, until he pulls out a sauce pan with a “ah-ha!”  Stiles fills up the sauce pan with water, and Derek watches, numbly, as he brings it back to his desk, picking up the daisies and placing them, stalk side down, in the water.  Derek’s never seen anything more ridiculous in his life.  It’s like Stiles plans on cooking the daisies later on, to spite Derek.  If he did, Derek couldn’t blame him, he deserves it.

Derek points to the daisies.  “I don’t know if they’re pesticide free, so don’t eat them.”  He’s just covering all the bases.

Stiles sends him a look, like he’s questioning Derek’s sanity.  

“Now.”  Stiles leans back in his chair.  “What do you want?”

“Can we talk?”  Derek asks, gesturing over to the sofa.  “Somewhere more casual.”

Stiles makes a face like he would prefer to do the exact opposite, but he still rises to his feet, walking over anyway.  He collapses on the sofa, a leg tucked beneath him.  Derek knows Stiles feels nervous because he grabs one of the pillows, hugging it to his lap.  It acts as a barrier between him and Derek.

Stiles raises a brow waiting for him to continue.

Derek opens and shuts his mouth a few times, finding it hard to string together a series of words that can explain all that he wants to tell Stiles.

Stiles’ brows continue to climb up his forehead the longer Derek sits silently.  Eventually he’ll get annoyed enough to kick Derek out of his office, then Derek will never get a chance to talk to him again.  He has to say something before it’s too late.

“I have to show you something,”  Derek says hurriedly.  Stiles frowns, confused.  “I need to shut the blinds, I don’t want anyone to see.”

Derek grabs for the remote on the end table.  Pressing a button the blinds start descending.

“FYI, if this is your way of discreetly murdering me, it’s actually the worst way of going about it.  There are countless witnesses who saw you going into my office.”

“Fuck, Stiles, I’m not going to  _ kill _ you,”  Derek remarks, startled, “why would you even think that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his chest.  “Maybe because you’re being super weird right now.”

“I could never hurt you, you must know that.”

Stiles shrugs, muttering under his breath, “didn’t stop you before,”  and that’s not going to fly.  Derek can’t have Stiles thinking that way about him.  He gets to his feet in a hurry, pulling off his tie and tossing it to the side.  He starts unbuttoning his dress shirt.

“The fuck are you doing?”  Stiles says, head turned away, a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Look at me,”  Derek requests, and only continues when Stiles turns back to him.  He unbuttons his shirt, but doesn’t pull it open just yet.  He takes off his glasses first, folding them and placing them on the end table, before he pulls open his shirt, showing Stiles the blue and red suit underneath.  

Derek hazards a glance up at Stiles’ face and finds him with his mouth wide open and a dumbfounded look on his face.

“Stiles?”  Derek asks, “say something?”

“You’re Superman,”  Stiles says, deadpan.

Derek nods.

“Holy shit, you’re Superman!”  Stiles exclaims, throwing the pillow to the floor in his haste to get up.  “How the fuck did I not see it before, glasses and plaid shirts are the worst disguise in the history of disguises.”

“Thanks,”  Derek says sarcastically.

Stiles waves his hands in front of him.  “That’s not what I meant!  How did I not see this before?”  He repeats.

“Willful ignorance?”  Derek asks sarcastically.

“Shut up.”  Stiles says with a smile, jokingly punching Derek in the arm.  “Oh my god, did that hurt?”  Stiles grabs at Derek’s arm.  “Do you even feel pain.”

“Yes, I feel pain, Stiles.”

“Wow.”  Stiles whistles.  “I did not see this coming.”

“Are you okay?”  Derek asks, worried, placing a hand over Stiles’.  “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you want me to know?”  Stiles asks, head tipped to the side, a curious expression on his face.

“You’re important to me, and I didn’t want to keep it from you any longer,”  Derek answers truthfully.

Stiles frowns.  “I’m important to you?”

“You’re one of my favourite people on this planet.  I care about you, what you think about me.  I’ve only known you for a few short months, but to me it feels like a lifetime.  It isn’t even hero worship, I never cared much for Batman and what the media made him out to be—a masked vigilante.  I care about you, and what you do.  You love this city and all the people in it, and it shows.   _ You’re _ amazing.  Not Batman,  _ you _ .”

Stiles sniffs, and his eyes look wetter than they did before.  “Oh.  Cool.” 

Derek smiles.  “I like you, a ridiculous amount, but when you asked me to go out with you, I froze up, said the only thing that came to mind.  I’m so used to hiding myself away from people, I try not to get to close to anyone who isn’t family.  I’m scared of being outed,” Derek admits.

“I would never tell anyone,”  Stiles says earnestly,  “I know exactly how you feel, don’t you remember?”  He points to his chest.  “Batman.”

Derek chuckles.  He peels Stiles’ hand off his arm, linking their fingers together as he tugs Stiles closer.  “So what about that date, huh?”

Stiles grins.  “I hear Batman likes the tops of tall buildings.”

Derek lifts their joined hands, pressing a kiss to the back of Stiles’. “Superman is partial to those too.”

**Author's Note:**

> might write a lemon for this later... maybe


End file.
